What is Past is Prologue
by black fungi
Summary: Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? XOVER La Femme Nikita, SLASH
1. ACT I: Have a Fucking Merry Christmas

Title: What is Past is Prologue   
Author/pseudonym: black fungi   
Email address:   
Rating: R   
Pairings: J/B, B/m

Status: In-Progress   
Date: 06/02/06   
Archive: Yes   
Archive author:   
Archive email address:   
Series/Sequel:   
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times   
Author's website:

Disclaimers:   
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:   
Do note the following for easier reading:   
**...words...** - Indicates words are stressed (bold)   
_...words..._ - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)   
...words... - Indicates mind-speak (underlined)   
BBS (Bulletin Board System) - Initial playground and preferred electronic meeting place for computer enthusiasts.

Summary:   
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings: Slash

--------------------------------------------------------

**ACT I: Have a Fucking Merry Christmas**

_"It's a world where Innocence and Purity have no seat,   
Where Evil triumphs while Goodness lies at his feet,   
White specked with dirt; Black an armor against dawn,   
Where Lies are material and Truths, nothing but pawns..."   
-- Transitions by S.R.Laine --_

-- Thursday, December 25th 1997 --   
-- 2332hrs --   
-- Section One --

It was good to see her laugh again. It was the kind of laughter that disturbed him at first: the one with heart and soul, and he didn't think the cold woman was ever capable of it. It was the kind that made him wonder if sacrificing his life was worth the cause he fought for and that if there was life still for him beyond Section One. With a firm shake of his head, he snuffed the thought out before it had a chance to spread across his brains like wildfire. It was foolish of him to think of such thoughts. He was bound to his work and his work was his life. Period.

Another laughter pulled him out of his reverie. Maddy was really having a ball of a time, dancing with Michael. Walter was exchanging presents with Birkoff, and from the looks of it, the younger man got the shorter end of the bargain. Nikita? She had two new operatives making cow-eyes at her and where her low-cut neckline ended, of course; the décolletage just begging a second glance... or should he say 'leer'. _All women love being appreciated. _

Looking at her and the others, he was glad that he had called for a day's celebration even though it was out of character for him to do so. A ghost of a smile passed on his lips as the image of the ever-reserved Michael choking on his coffee, then gaping at him as though he had spurted two horns on his head, came to mind. _I believe one's apt to a few oddities around this time of the month. _

Everyone was... simply happy. All was forgotten. At that moment then, they weren't a bunch of trigger-happy assassins, working for the government... They were simply human, trying to find solace in each other's company.

His eyes swept across the room and found Maddy's. She raised her hand and silently toasted her drink to him. Though his mind assured him that all this was only make-believe, only temporary, his heart cannot forget the joy on her face and he longed for all that might have been. He gave another firm shake of his head and reminded himself of his position. He hadn't the time to entertain any ridiculous notions; he figured the longer he remained there, the more absurdities his mind was going to be subjected to. With a click of his heels, he turned and made his way to his office.

The minute he stepped in, he realized something was wrong. Someone had gone through his things while he was playing 'host'. She or he had been neat but obviously missed the few telltale signs he left to secure his building.

A single strand of hair balanced perfectly on the knob of his drawer was gone. So was a thin strip of invisible tape secured at the bottom. It wasn't because he doubted the building's security system: it was a habit he could never shake off. After a certain misfortune in 1986, security was tripled and countless efforts were poured into it to ensure the new design bore no loopholes. He was more than satisfied with the results, but now he wondered if he should have given in to Maddy's brand of paranoia.

A quick check told him nothing else was missing though. He flipped his laptop open, not bothering with fingerprints. Chances were whoever had been through his things had also taken care not to leave any. He didn't think whoever did this was stupid. His brows knitted into a frown as he recalled a couple of crazy crackers hacking into their databases and displaying classified information on the BBS. Twelve innocent lives had paid for their foolish act before he and his people remedied the situation. It was most unfortunate, but more would follow if they hadn't done their job.

The screen flickered for a moment before his last work log was displayed.

12/25/1997 23:30:41 Downloaded File #ADRIAN258

12/25/1997 23:30:43 Downloaded File #ADRIAN259

12/25/1997 23:30:46 Downloaded File #ADRIAN260

It was barely two minutes since the intruder left the premises with copies of Adrian's files. The thought that someone had intruded his office and his personal files slightly rattled him. He had mistakenly placed his trust on the security system, and for someone who rarely makes mistakes, he found that to be gravely unacceptable.

His eyes returned to the screen. As he reread the words, a disturbing feeling welled up in his chest, leaving him trembling and weak. He didn't recognize it at first, but as soon as it made itself known, he tightened his grip at the ends of the laptop until the knuckles showed bone-white through his stretched skin.

What he felt was fear.

Someone had an interest in Adrian, enough to risk his or her own mortality to penetrate the building with operatives running amok in Santa's suits.

Pressing a button on the intercom, he said dryly, "Send Michael in" and sank in his chair. _This is not my idea of Christmas_.

TBC


	2. ACT II: Mind Games 01

Title: What is Past is Prologue   
Author/pseudonym: black fungi   
Email address:   
Rating: R   
Pairings: J/B, B/m

Status: In-Progress   
Date: 06/02/06   
Archive: Yes   
Archive author:   
Archive email address:   
Series/Sequel:   
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times   
Author's website:

Disclaimers:   
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:   
Do note the following for easier reading:   
**...words...** - Indicates words are stressed (bold)   
_...words..._ - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)   
...words... - Indicates mind-speak (underlined)

Summary:   
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings: Slash

--------------------------------------------------------

**ACT II: Mind Games**

-- Wednesday, February 4th 1998 --  
-- 1120hrs --  
-- Cascade Park --

"I don't wanna do it!" Wisps of hair flew over his face as he shook his head stubbornly. Folding his arms across his chest, he willed the unruly tendrils away from his eyes with a hearty puff and looked at Jim squarely in the eyes. "I won't do it, and you can't make me, Jim!"

For the eighth time that day, Jim sighed wearily. He had heard enough of his partner's obstinate refusal to participate in this simple exercise, and he was goddamned sure the rest of the guys in blue had too.

"It's just a tin can."

"Oh yeah? Maybe this time it's **just** an empty can or empty bottle, then it'll be **just** a paper outline of a person, and the next thing I know, I'll be **just** shooting guys off the street," the younger man explained hurriedly, his hands flying in swift animated gestures. "And my karma's **way** uncool with that. **Now** can we skip?"

_For Christ's sake! Do you have to analyze everything to death! They're **cans**!_ Jim was beginning to feel a throbbing in his temple, a sure sign that a headache was being born.

The Annual Police Obstacle Race had started off surprisingly well. Blair had good-naturedly joined in, and despite the absence of police training, he was holding up under his own steam better than most of them here. But it was the marksmanship exercise that had Wonder Boy stumped.

Jim's eyes caught a couple of rookies sniggering at the far end of a picnic table, probably thinking what a wimp his friend was. He knew Blair was no wimp. Hell, Blair was probably the only person he knew that could take out an armed terrorist with a **vending** **machine**, but this little episode was not going to score an 'A' with the good guys. _The_ _faster you finish this, the faster we can get the hell out of here with what's left of your reputation._ He was 101 percent certain now that they were talking about his young friend: Being a sentinel has its few advantages. His eyes shifted back to his friend who was staring mutely at the cans a hundred and twenty yards away from them. _Maybe I need a new approach._

"Kid, you go to carnivals often?"

"Yeah... if there's one around.." Blair turned away from the cans to look at Jim curiously with a tinge of suspicion at the change in conversation. Not that he didn't trust Jim, but like most good cops, they have an annoying habit of sneaking up on innocent civilians - like himself. _Jim is a **great** cop and a sentinel. What chances have I got against him?_ "And?"

"And what do they have there?"

"You mean at the carnival?"

Jim nodded.

"You haven't been to a carnival before, man?"

Jim only smiled his smile which Blair recognized as, 'Humor me, Sandburg.'

_Okay, Jim, I'll humor you this time... and **every** other time._ Taking a deep breath, Blair recounted all the stuff there were in all the carnivals he had been. ".. and there's a lot of squalling kids for one thing, not that I'm like **totally** against noise pollution 'coz it's a carnival you know, it's expected and hell, you can't get a better carnival to go to without a scream; and there's lots of huge contraptions to stimulate the adrenaline like the House of Horror, the Viking and Rollercoaster rides which I've been meaning to question the effects on your senses up there, that is if I can ever pull you away from work, and gods forbid, enough junk food to last a lifetime and shoot an artery or two and there's games to --"

"Games," Jim spoke out suddenly, silencing Blair's monologue. "You like games, Sandburg?"

"Sure. Don't you?"

Jim chose not to hear the question or answer it. This wasn't about him. Knowing Blair, he could turn the whole conversation given an opportunity, and Jim was making sure he wasn't giving any. "Great! So let's play a game."

"A game?" Blair couldn't help but sense an impending doom.

"A game. You played one of those games where you have to squirt water right at the bull's eye to get a stuffed toy before?"

Blair nodded, not daring to hear himself speak. He was almost certain there was a trap hidden somewhere, and the growing panic he felt didn't exactly boost his mental skills.

"Well, now we're going to play a similar game. Different rules though." Jim turned Blair around so that the ten cans were in full view. "All you have to do is shoot those cans there, and if you do knock **one** down, you won't get a stuff toy." Jim then turned him to face the snickering rookies to his left. "No, kiddo, you won't get a stuff toy, but you **will** get to rub it in their faces, which is a whole lot more satisfying were you to ask me. So are you game, Chief?"

_Oh shit! Why didn't I see that before?_ Blair winced. _I'm making a dumb fuck outta myself - and Jim - with my stupid, **stupid** sheep whining... **Right** in front of the whole fucking precinct too. They're never gonna lived it down - Jim and his **sissy** partner, too fucking afraid to shoot harmless cans. Jeez!_ "A game?" His voice was soft, and to Jim, it sounded so pitiful in his confusion and fear.

"Just a game, Sandburg. Just a game," Jim reassured him, patting his cheeks gently as if dealing with a slightly demented child. _That's it Sandburg. It's all a game..._ He placed the gun into the smaller hands and guided him to face his targets.

"It's just a game," Blair muttered, "It's just a game." _I'm gonna stop being such a whiny piece of shit in front of all his cop buddies and shoot those fucking cans_. So Blair shot, the sound almost deafening. Again and again, until all he heard was an empty click. For every cursed blast, Blair could hear a distinctive scream in his mind and it clawed viciously in his gut.

Ten out of ten. _That oughta keep their mouths shut!_ He felt that he should be shouting at the top of his voice for his perfect score, but at that moment, he could feel only revulsion for allowing himself to be led into a 'Killing Exercise'. "I hope you're impressed 'coz I'm gonna lose my breakfast any second now." He dropped the gun and fell unceremoniously on his butt.

"You're really terrified of guns, aren't you?" Crouching in front of Blair, Jim teased; only his eyes betraying the genuine concern for his friend.

"No, not exactly. Just that I don't like them very much." He squeezed his eyes shut and vigorously rubbed his temples as though the very act would erase the memory.

_Yeah, and you're one hell of a shooter, kid!_ Jim flashed a proud smile at his friend, which went unnoticed. "Hey, you okay?"

"Jim, I think I'm gonna --" Vomit spewed out suddenly onto his shirt. "Shit... **This** is not good." Without opening his eyes, he spoke, "You wanna leave this place, man? 'Coz it ain't a bed of roses here."

"C'mon, Chief. I think that's enough exercise for one day."

TBC


	3. ACT II: Mind Games 02

Title: What is Past is Prologue  
Author/pseudonym: black fungi  
Email address:  
Rating: R  
Pairings: J/B, B/m  
Status: In-Progress  
Date: 06/02/06  
Archive: Yes  
Archive author:  
Archive email address:  
Series/Sequel:  
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times  
Author's website:

Disclaimers:  
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:  
Do note the following for easier reading:  
**...words...** - Indicates words are stressed (bold)  
_...words..._ - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)  
...words... - Indicates mind-speak (underlined)

Summary:  
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings: Slash

--------------------------------------------------------

-- 2105hrs --  
-- Prospect 852, Loft --

After Jim helped Blair clean himself, they stayed for the rest of the evening. It wasn't Jim's idea. If it were up to him, he would've hauled Blair's sorry ass back home. But Blair had insisted, pleaded with his lost puppy look. As long as Blair was okay, Jim didn't think it would hurt. Somehow that little prep talk on carnivals and revenge had changed his mind on leaving, and Jim was feeling guilty for unwittingly pushing Blair into thinking he had shamed him for creating a scene. It worried him too that his best friend felt so strongly about using a gun.

He wondered if Blair's reaction had anything to do with the Golden incident two years ago. The poor kid had lived with months of flashbacks, night terrors and psychiatric visits after. There were times then when Jim believed the ride was long over, that it had totally broken his friend, but Blair surprised them all when he bounced back to his old self. _It couldn't have been that. Could it?_ He didn't believe it could. Still, he had spent the entire drive back home trying to get Blair to talk to him, subtly steering the conversation to that one incident. Blair had assured him that 'oh, he was cool' - whatever that meant - but Jim could not **not** sense pain beneath his words. Maybe it had been too soon, too painful a memory for his young guide to share with him, so the worried sentinel shelved the thought of grilling him.

When they were safely in the loft, Sandburg had the dibs to the toilet. There was no point in arguing; Blair in a vomit-stained shirt was all the smell a Sentinel could take.

While Blair was busy making himself feel (and let's not forget smell) **human** again, Jim skimmed through Palmer's forensic reports. He didn't want to actually, not when he had unfinished business with Blair. Truth to be told, he rather be spending his night coddling his friend out of his 'oh-I'm-cool' mental anguish, but he figured Detective James Ellison needed to make some new headway; A few harmless minutes on it wouldn't hurt. Plus he promised Rafe and H that he would bring the files over within the hour.

So like it or not, there was no escape from this 'chore'. A **very** nasty chore, judging from the pictures. _Whoever has done this to this kid is one sick bastard._ His stomach lurched at the sight of a picture of a heavily mutilated body. The victim was only fifteen, but that wasn't why he felt the bile rose up in his throat... It was his uncanny resemblance to his partner - the hair, the face, the height and even his personality (an assessment offered by his friends). A dead ringer. Pardon the pun.

The previous team from Vice assigned to this case tried to cover all the bases, but there was nothing to pin on the case - anyone the kid shouldn't have pissed. Zippo. They didn't rule out possible random killings, especially with all this millennium shit fermented in the public's minds. His parents however had thought otherwise. Being parents that they were and unfortunately having tremendous influence on the senate, the mayor had Captain Simon Banks appointed his best team on it. **That** meaning Jim and Blair.

_Snuffed without reason... Even I find that tough to swallow..._ Jim shivered for effect. _Think I need a drink._

Jim walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and frowned in disappointment. _Whose turn was it to stock up? It's practically bare in here!_ Last Friday, they had 'Briyani' and Jim helped Blair buy the spices when it was Blair's turn to shop for groceries. But he couldn't remember if it was last week or the week before. For that matter, he couldn't remember if he did any shopping for the whole of last month. _And it's no wonder... I haven't been grocery shopping at __**all**__ since Christmas. Oops..._ Jim grinned sheepishly.

"Might as well go shopping and hand in those reports," Jim muttered aloud, speaking to no one in particular. He strode to the hall, picked up the reports and was about to get his jacket when the phone rang.

"Ellison."

"Sandburg please," a deep curt voice answered.

"He's occupied right now." Jim couldn't contain a grin when he heard Blair's gurgled voice singing Sinatra's 'My Way' under the blast of shower. "Who's calling?"

"Michael, sir. I'll wait. Tell him it's urgent."

"In a minute." Jim placed the receiver on the table and yelled, "Sandburg! Your call!"

Sounds of the faucet being rapidly turned to cut the water off and Blair groping for his towels were audible to the sentinel's sensitive hearing. A crash was then heard, followed by a loud 'Ouch' and a muttered curse.

The crash brought Jim outside the bathroom, and he knocked on the door. "You okay in there?" His friend could have an accident at the most unsuspecting places. Jim swore he would have a cardiac arrest if Blair didn't at all step into the hospital in a month. It was not an unusual thing. For all his fancy moves, Blair was always tripping over something, loosing his footing and falling. It wasn't because he was clumsy. _God, no one moves like Sandburg. His slightest motions are like a dancer's, weaving a mystic tale out of an ancient book. Supple, graceful, erotic and sometimes sad. Yet now and then, tangled in that woolly head of his, Mr. Co-ordinate Blair isn't._ Being with him out in the field didn't help either, Jim duly noted.

"Chief? Tell me you didn't give yourself a concussion," Jim joked, trying to repress the panicked urge to knock down the door when Blair didn't reply the first time.

"Nah.. Stub my toe there," Blair called out from the shower, in reassurance. "Tell her to give me a sec."

Trust Sandburg to believe the womenfolk's falling at his feet. Jim gave a smirk as the panic wore off. He shook his head, disbelieving. _Well, the womenfolk __**are**__ falling at his little feet._ Jim couldn't blame the women for lack of self-respect. _They know a good thing when they see one, and damn if Blair isn't the best thing that could happen in their world._ Even when things didn't actually work out, Blair had shared a part of himself, and that gift was, to Jim, more than enough. But some women didn't like to be brushed off lightly. An image of Samantha came to mind and craved a grin on his face. Nothing like a woman scorned.

_Yeah, Sandburg, the __**divine**__ answer to all women's prayers... But not today, Chief.._ "It's a he," Jim corrected, then turned to the receiver to inform the speaker that Blair would be right with him in a **few minutes**. For all the man's intelligence, Blair's understanding of the time frame was **very** much different from the normal population. Then again, his partner wasn't exactly normal.

"Oh?" The surprise in his partner's voice was quite evident, and Jim didn't need sentinel senses to hear a faint tinge of disappointment. A muffled 'Who is it?' was heard; Blair was furiously drying his riotous, wet hair with fluffy towels and his speech was somehow caught in the action.

_I would like to know that too, Sandburg. You have too __**many**__ guys calling over for comfort. __**My**__ own personal comfort to be precise._ "Some guy - Michael. Says it's urgent."

_Okay, so 'many' is stretching a wee bit but __**three**__ in fours months is really cutting it too close._ The first was Richard Peterson. Oh, he met the jerk in person all right. Richard was not much older than him, Jim supposed. Built like him, Richard could almost pass for an older brother, and he wasn't at all that unpleasant to the eye... That last thought didn't blend well with the sentinel. No offense to all Richards, but he really was a dick. His rude manners left little to be desired, but it was his cocky attitude that he **believed** he actually owned the little fella that had him hopping mad. He kept putting his paws on Blair where **they** shouldn't be, taking Blair to places where he shouldn't **have** and most of all, he kept Blair away from home, night after night, with that silly excuse of needing Blair's help on his project. Jeez, his senses were swarmed by the odor of pheromones emitting from Richard when he met him, 'studying' with Blair in the library. Blair, the ever 'observer', was strangely oblivious to Richard's amorous advances. It took a 'civilized' man-to-man talk for Richard to quake in his pants and leave. Jim grinned at the thought.

A mathematician at Rainier, Ian MacLaine, was second in line. No, Jim hadn't met him, but from Blair's description of him, he wouldn't be any different from his scruffy young partner. Ian was strictly a 'phone-guy'. _He'll be one helluva guy for a long distance romance._

Then there was Dr. Norman 'as-in-Bates' Williams, Daryl's dentist. One harmless visit to the dentist, courtesy of Simon and POWW!! Norman came sniffing at Jim's loft.

Unlike Richard, Jim just couldn't find any fault with Dr. Williams. He was clean: no drugs involvement, no dark childhood to speak of, no criminal record. He had even been granted a plate by the mayor himself for helping a police officer nab a child molester. Norman was as sweet as they come. His mannerism was perfectly charming and sincere with none of the insolence of Richard's. With an IQ of 172, they didn't have much problem in the communication department either. They never seem to run out of things to talk, and Jim, not having well-read in certain areas, was unwittingly left out of their conversations. As much as Jim hated to admit it, Norman would be a suitable mate for Blair. But Blair's door just didn't swing both ways, and they both parted amiably. _If for some reason Blair decides to make a 180 degree change in his sex life, Norman would be 'it'._ Jim thought grimly. _And now there is some young pup named __**Michael**__ on the phone asking for Blair and calling him __**Sir**_

He didn't mind if Blair-chases-anything-in-a-skirt Sandburg opted for (or secretly led) an alternative lifestyle. Of course, he'd be startled at first, but he was sure he'd come around. _The kid's a darn hippie. He's probably done a few things that would have my ancestors turn over in their graves._ Hell, it wasn't his business to mind in the first place. It was just that Blair had a knack for choosing 'poor' bedmates and getting himself hurt in the process. Jim didn't like that. If it were physical hurt, the hospital could fix him up, but Jim didn't think he could help much if they wounded his friend's heart. Not after Maya... No, he didn't like it at all.

"He sounds like a very polite young man," Jim commented lightly, hoping that the irritation he felt wasn't projected into that single sentence.

"He pulled a **Sir** on you, didn't he?"

"Which is more than I can say for your manners," Jim muttered under his breath when he heard a gurgle of laugh choking out of Sandburg. Taking on a more nonchalant tone, he asked, "Who's this Michael anyway?"

"I don't know a **Michael**. Probably Dave's student." Clad only in a white bathing robe and a white towel over his damp hair, Blair emerged from the bathroom.

"Dave?" _Oh swell Sandburg... They're all popping out of the woodwork!_

"Yeah, Professor David Hemming. You remember Dave, don't you? Tall, dark - the one who offered me a ride home from the airport when you were sick?" At the look of confusion persistently etched on Jim's face, Blair shrugged and waved it way as unimportant. "Anyway, I covered some of his Anthro 101 classes when his wife went into labor last week. 23 hours, man." Blair gave a whistle of admiration as he skipped his way to the living room. "That must be one helluva torture for one woman to go through. Dave wanted Rachel to have a cesarean birth but 'no thanks to Mr. Blair Sandburg', as quoted by Dave himself," Blair remarked in mock guilt, "the wonderful, intelligent Mrs. Hemming opted to go au naturel. 23 hours! And I wonder why they call females 'The Weaker Sex'?"

Blair paused a while, gathering his thoughts before shooting in pure gusto, the bounce in his steps became more pronounced. "The mom and baby are safe, and Dave never look happier. They've asked me to be her godfather. Isn't that so great? And they named their little bundle of joy after me!!! Me! Blair Sandburg! There's this little tyke named after **me**!! And I'm gonna be her godfa-- What?" Noting the grin on Jim's face, he stopped and reached out for his nose and began to dab it with one end of the towel. "Do I have a smudge on my nose or something?" Seeing no evidence of stain on the towel, he continued, "Sentinel or no sentinel, I **know** I cleaned myself very well."

It was fairly entertaining watching his partner fizzled in his enthusiasm becoming a 'Godfather'. _God, Blair is going to spoil the child rotten. I hope the Hemmings know what demon they've created out of Sandburg._ But he doubted **Michael** was having an equally joyous time waiting on Blair. Not that he cared anyway. All that raced in his mind now was his best friend being... _Cute._ Standing there in his virginal white robe, he looked... _Good enough to eat. I mean if the audience is into that kind of thing, and I'm __**not**__. Oh Jeez..._ Jim carelessly gestured at the phone in his hand, slightly alarmed by the sudden train of thought.

"Oops.. uh, thanks Jim." Embarrassment colored his cheeks. Blair took the phone and settled himself down on the couch, the towel over his head providing a blessed screen to Jim's scrutiny.

"Anytime." Jim chuckled in understanding, his earlier discomfort conveniently forgotten. Draping his jacket onto his arm, he walked to the doorway, meaning to let himself out.

The sound of a turning doorknob made Blair's head shot up in Jim's direction. Taking note of Jim's clothing and finally realizing that his partner was going off to 'somewhere', he let out a quick apology to the speaker on the phone, and then, covering the mouth piece with his hand, he asked, "Where are you going?"

"We run out of beer, and it's my turn to run down to the mart, remember? You need anything?"

"Yeah, I got a list on a couple of-- " Blair started to stand up but plopped back to his seat. "No, wait. **Way** too much trouble. Maybe we could go together later?"

"Sure." Jim was already throwing his jacket onto the couch and making a beeline, up to his room. "Just be quick; I promised Rafe and H, I'd drop Palmer's forensic reports within the hour. And if we're quicker, we could have dinner at Tony's new restaurant."

"I'm fresh out of dough, man." The younger man's face pulled in disappointment. "If you want to, you can go ahead. I can always whip up my--".

"--My treat. For making an ass out of those rookies. Waddya say?" Jim smiled his megawatt smile at him. _Kid, you couldn't make me prouder of you..._

Blair made an OK sign with his fingers and hid his face under the towel again as he felt a deep flush returning to his cheeks. Then he turned his attention to the speaker on the phone. "Hello Michael? Sorry to keep you waiting, man."

"I'm surprised." The voice sounded amused. "Whatever happen to Mr. Every-fucking-second-counts?"

TBC


	4. ACT II: Mind Games 03

Title: What is Past is Prologue  
Author/pseudonym: black fungi  
Email address:  
Rating: R  
Pairings: J/B, B/m  
Status: In-Progress  
Date: 06/02/06  
Archive: Yes  
Archive author:  
Archive email address:  
Series/Sequel:  
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times  
Author's website:

Disclaimers:  
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:  
Do note the following for easier reading:  
**...words...** - Indicates words are stressed (bold)  
_...words..._ - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)  
...words... - Indicates mind-speak (underlined)

Summary:  
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings: Slash

--------------------------------------------------------

_Michael?? Damn fuck!_ It had been some time since Blair heard from that voice, but there was no mistake about its owner. His relaxed posture involuntarily stiffened and without the usual mirth in his voice, he asked icily, "What do you want?"

Above in Jim's room, the sentinel was momentarily startled from his report reading. That sounded ugly. Bitter even. An everyday sentence, yet all disgust and pent-up hatred thrown into those four simple words could melt even the hardest of steel. No, it was not like anything that would spout out from Blair's lips. Gentle Blair. _**That**__ was definitely not Gentle Blair speaking. That was a really upset Blair._ The temptation to listen to the conversation was great, but Blair wouldn't appreciate his eavesdropping on him_. But what if.._ He began to tune up his hearing but blur the actual words, only listening to the patterns of his partner's steady heartbeat and the soothing drone of his voice. Should Blair need any help in the verbal department over the phone, Jim would be more than ready (and **happy**) to assist. He'd make sure no one upsets his Guide again. _**Surely**__ Blair has nothing against that. After all, I'm his Blessed Protector._ With that firm resolution in mind, he flipped open the next page and continued his reading.

"Nothing. I'm in town, and I'm just calling to say hi. Can't I say hi to an old friend of mine? Renew old ties? Reminisce the--"

"Look Michael," Blair cut him off, annoyed, tired and confused at this unwarranted phone call. Superficial... It sounded too superficial, and for someone who could read well between the lines and pick up the slightest hint of emotion, that felt as though someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. _If Jim only knew that I knew Richard had been carrying that affection of his, __**way**__ over his head..._ "Let's not shit around, okay? Guys like you aren't exactly the most agreeable student to teach in the communication class."

A long pause, then a hesitant question: "Are you doing anything next Friday?"

"Lay me the time and place. Any other instruction?" Familiarity. **This** he could handle, and it was all coming back to him - Michael would inform him where and when he should be and then brief him on his business. Maybe if he was feeling nice, he'd say 'okay' to whatever, or maybe he should just say 'fuck it'. Yeah, and let them mess with his life all over again. _Same old, same old. Why did I ever think things would be different?_

"No... I mean are you **available** next Friday?"

"I'm sure that day would be made **available** to you, Michael." Blair almost took a sneering tone. _Don't fuck with my mind, Michael. You and the whole of Section One fucked with my life once, so don't you start fucking with my mind. I can fucking do that on my own._

"I didn't ask for you to clear your whole schedule, Blair. I just want to know if you have anything planned."

"Now, that's odd. Why should I be doing anything next **Friday**? Or any **other** day for that matter?" A slight note of exasperation slipped out. It took Blair every ounce of control not to scream his seething fury and tear all his hair out. "It doesn't matter if I have classes or if I have to run down to the station or I'm just planning a quiet suicide, you know that. And I know Section would feed them some shit to let me off the hook for a few days or so. Oh, I'm **sure** you've **planned** things out for me, haven't you, Michael? So why bother to ask?" Blair hissed. _What right do you have to ask?!!_

"Jesus H. Christ, Blair! You make it very hard for a guy to ask you out on a date!"

_Oh oh...Date?? Sweet Goddess, I think Thy humble servant is finally losing it. And I don't mean __**me**_ When he finally got his jaw off the floor, he swallowed. "Date?" Blair squeaked. _Shit! Did Jim catch that?_ His eyes reluctantly traveled upwards to Jim's room, half- expecting Jim to appear by the rails and bellow what a bunch of queers he dragged into his life! Not that it was any of Jim's concern, but he lived under the man's roof, for God's sake! Two harmless weeks turned out to be three years in all. If a man is uncomfortable in his own house, then it's not a home to begin with, and the very last thing he wanted was Jim freaking out on him! Sleeping out in the streets is not a viable option either.

"Umm, yeah... I mean, no. Not a date **date**, but you know, movies... a walk... a simple dinner, perhaps? And uhh, they set a place for me here, and I was thinking if you want to come over? I mean after our dinner... That is if you'd agree?"

_Sounds like a date to me... But if he said it ain't..._ "Yeah..." Blair bit his lips, uncertain. He hated being thrown off balanced. _What the hell am I getting myself into this time?_ "Yeah, sure. That'll be great. When did you say it'll be?"

"Friday. Next Friday." Michael sounded oddly relieved. "I know it's only a couple of days away and you might have other --" He stopped in mid-sentence, then cleared his throat and tried to continue. "If you can't make yourself available, it's -- I'm not demanding that you --" After three consecutive tries, he let out a whisper of expletives, too soft to hear. _Fucking pitiful. How do I make myself understood to Blair without being a wishy washy excuse for a man?_ "This is not an order, Blair."

"This is not?"

"No", the answer came quickly and firmly.

"**No**?" _They set up a place for you here in Cascade, so that means they obviously know I'm still here, and you're coming to see me on your __**own**__ time? Yeah, and did I forget to mention my mom's the Queen of England?_

"I was instructed to pick up a merchandise in Cascade. No more."

The same eerie silence followed as before as Blair's mind tried to process this other side of Michael. _If this isn't a date, then I guess this must be one of those male __**bonding**__... Umm... Michael's out __**bonding**__? On his own time no less?_ The last time they **bonded**, Blair ended up at the other corner of the earth with the Spetsnaz troops in line for target practice and he was at the **wrong** side. Of course, he could argue that Michael was just acting under orders then, but was he a fucking fool to think that it would be any different now?

"Friday? As in next Friday?" _Ok, that settles one of the many mysteries in this universe._

A muffled yes was heard.

"Could you hold on a sec?" Without waiting for an answer, Blair threw the phone on the couch and whizzed to his room.

"Chief, you're through?" Jim called out from upstairs.

"Won't take a minute, Jim," Blair answered in a rush while trying to dig through the papers on his bed. He remembered placing his planner there... or was it in his bag? Or on the floor? A quick scan on the floor made him groan. It was practically cluttered with papers and books. Blair made a mental note to clear the mess after his shopping and dinner with Jim later, but for now, he gotta find that damn book!

Minutes later, Blair was flying out to the living room with a blue notepad, tucked under his left arm. Cradling the earpiece between his right ear and shoulder, he flipped the pages in a blur, muttering the word 'Friday... Friday... Friday...' like a mantra.

The flipping stopped. Friday, the 13th. Trust Michael to choose a **date** for a date. It wasn't because he was superstitious, but having a one-to-one with Michael on a believed-to-be-a-Black-Karma day couldn't be a good thing.

Blair broke into a smile when he discovered his Friday was void of his usual activities. No stake out. No class. Dave promised to cover all of his three classes that day since Blair took six of his last week, and Blair figured he could spend his Friday on his dissertation. _...and maybe come down to the station and help Jim finish up some paperwork. Who am I kidding? Jim would make me do __**all**__ the paperwork. I'll probably finish it by midday. That'll leave the rest of the day to myself._ "Friday's cool."

A moment later, the smile turned to a scowl. "You know I can't afford that kind of shit. One fucking meal will cost me half my pay check!"

On the other side of the line, Michael gave a mental smack on his head. Michael loathed reminding his old friend time and again of Blair's sizable Swiss account. Ah, that was one secret _among a __**few**__ others..._ that Blair guarded from the public's knowledge. For almost eighteen years, each month, Section had without fail, wired in generous amount of money. _The kid's a fucking millionaire by now._ 'Blood money', that was what Blair had once said. To Michael, money is **money**, but the stubborn anthropologist would hear none of it which raise a few questions about his spending habits like 'How the hell did he get that kind of money to live the life he lived then?' Oh, he wasn't suggesting Blair was frivolous with money, but he led a fairly comfortable life compared to most people.

No, Blair didn't own a car or a house or a yacht, and if Michael remembered well, most of his clothes looked like they were pinched from the Salvation Army. He preferred good old beer anytime but would not hesitate to pop a 1423 for a friend's birthday. He rarely dined in fine restaurants, but when he did (and it was usually with company), he always insisted on picking up the tab. He didn't have a plastic, but he carried sufficient cash and if that was lacking, his credit seemed good enough everywhere. Good enough for him to pick up an $11,700 Incan artifact off an antique store to donate it to Rainier anonymously.

Oh, fuck 'comfortable'! There had been more than one time that Michael suspected Blair had had his hands in his **bloody** pool of money up to his elbows. How else would you explain it?

Now it seemed his young friend had acquired the taste of 'sheer simplicity', making it through the day by strapping his wallet and his stomach, if Michael guessed correctly. Either that or a certain James Ellison had taken that financial weight right out of his hands. No, he didn't think so, but it wasn't his business.

"It's on me," Michael spoke quietly and prayed Blair wouldn't make such a big deal out of it. If this was the same Blair seven years ago, his pride would have put up a big fuss over money matters, but the young man could only mouth a soft 'Oh' in surprise. _James Ellison must have impressed a stronger influence on Blair than I thought._ "Friday at the Ritz. I'll pick you up at 2000hrs sharp. Dress code formal."

A soft click told Blair that their conversation was terminated. Michael was never one for good-byes, and he was all business_. Michael, if this is another one of your survival test, I'm gonna fry your fucking ass and have it for supper. I have enough test for today._ Blair shivered as he remembered their little outing earlier that day.

Frankly speaking, he was secretly hoping it to be a test. Michael's taking personal time-out (outside of Section's orders) was unheard of and to Blair, downright scary. He could never handle unpredictability from Michael. Not anticipating his moves would mean being unprepared for the shit Michael would heap upon him, and being unprepared would result in a deadly situation. One has to be sharp and wary about him. The alternative would be suicide; he hadn't even reserved a plot for himself. Come to think of it, having his remains scattered across Lake Tuba wasn't a bad idea either.

Carefully placing the receiver back to its cradle, Blair scribbled a new entry in his planner and whispered "An old friend", knowing his sentinel would hear him. Oh, he **knew** Jim was 'hearing' out for him. Privacy was one of the few sacrifices living with a sentinel. Blair hadn't mind it, especially when Jim had once told him that his heartbeat was like a beacon, an 'anchor' to the real world. It had made him feel safe, secured to Jim in this unlikely bond, and if Jim had been listening closely, he would know the call had troubled him.

Light footsteps descended down the stairs. Blair turned and found his friend sitting on the coffee table, staring at him intently_. Now that's a first._ Blair let out a silent chuckle. _I think we got our sitting arrangement swapped._

"You okay, Sandburg?"

Blair gave a weak nod and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and then rubbed his face.

"You looked--"

"Surprised? Stunned? Shocked?"

"No. You looked tired." _Like you've aged a few years._

"No kidding, man," he mumbled incoherently, his hands still covering his face.

"Chief? Is there something I should know about?"

"About Michael?" Blair lifted his head, wide innocent orbs meeting concerned blues of his friend. "No.. it's nothing.. I - I guess I haven't seen him for some time and old memories come flooding back to me. Not so nice memories, you know? The kind you rather do without..." With a wistful expression on his face, he slumped his back to the couch and let his eyes shut. It was one of the things he hated. There was little he could keep a secret from his sentinel, especially when his eyes were like windows to his soul. No, he didn't want Jim to know... not now. And if he wanted to keep his friendship with Jim, he knew not ever...

Jim managed to steal a hint of pain clouding Blair's eyes before he had them shut. Part of him wanted to scoop the young man into his arms and offer him comfort and refuge from his pain. Another part of him wanted to shake him hard for not trusting him to share his hurt. _Maybe I can shake him hard enough out of it. No, Blair wouldn't appreciate me nosing into his affair and I'll probably break a few of his bones to boot. Now __**that'll**__ really upset him. He'll come out to me when he trusts me on it._

From the corner of his eyes, Jim glimpsed an entry in Blair's opened planner - Friday, February 13th 1998. The ink was fairly wet, and in the column 2000hrs, the small writing read 'Michael?? Ritz??'. _February 13th? Only a day away from - None of my business... Remember that, Jim... _Smacking his hands onto his jeans-clad thighs, he stood up, walked away to get his jacket, then asked, "So are you coming?"

"Like this?" His eyes snapped open, large as saucers and his arms outstretched. "You gotta be kidding, man. The mart's crawling with single clawing females; Do you want me to die young?" Blair exclaimed in mock horror, then managed a laugh as he tried to duck a flying throw pillow.

TBC


	5. ACT II: Mind Games 04

Title: What is Past is Prologue  
Author/pseudonym: black fungi  
Email address:  
Rating: R  
Pairings: J/B, B/m  
Status: In-Progress  
Date: 06/02/06  
Archive: Yes  
Archive author:  
Archive email address:  
Series/Sequel:  
Category: Crossovers, Drama, First Times  
Author's website:

Disclaimers:  
TV series The Sentinel remains the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Production while La Femme Nikita is owned by Warner Bros and USA Network. I claim authorship to this story which is written simply for mindless entertainment... STRICTLY a non-profit endeavor.

Notes:  
Do note the following for easier reading:  
**...words...** - Indicates words are stressed (bold)  
_...words..._ - Indicates unspoken thoughts (italics)  
...words... - Indicates mind-speak (underlined)

Summary:  
Will Blair's shawdowy past threaten his new found tranquility and life with Jim? The Sentinel xover La Femme Nikita

Warnings: Slash

--------------------------------------------------------

-- 2250hrs --  
-- Section One --

She watched him finger a piece of paper almost lovingly. No, it wasn't just a paper, she corrected herself, but a photograph. From where she stood, outside his office, she was unable to discern the picture but she was confident it featured a certain long-haired..._**hippie**__? How in the world does someone as classy as Michael end up with a... tree- hugging hippie?_

She swore her eyes must be playing tricks on her - she had a quick look of the photo as Michael was picking it up off the floor after it accidentally fell out his wallet almost a month ago. Given her eidetic memory, it was hard not to brand that image on her mind. _So Michael got a case for a man; why should __**that**__ bother me?_

But a tiny voice screamed insistently, saying it was just not possible. It was not the fact that her mentor/lover kept a photo of man in his wallet that had thrown her off the map or that he had it bad for a hippie. Of course, the last thing she would think to find in his closet was his being bi, but the thought of Michael actually romancing a 'person' - be it a **man** or **woman** - was like taking a trip to bedlam.

"Blair Sandburg, anthropologist. I looked him up." A voice beside here made her spun to face the speaker. He tapped the end of a pencil on his temple. "If you're wondering who he is, that is."

_Anthropologist?_ It didn't ring any bells. Granted Michael's life was quite an enigma, it still did not explain the obvious infatuation. "Anthropologist?" She could not keep the skeptical tone out of her voice. "How the hell does Anthropology fit into all this?"

"Yeah, I know," the young man nodded, taking that as an agreement in opinion. "I wonder what's with all the hung ups about it. I mean, once you get pass the naked men and women, Anthropology is just --" he stopped and stared blankly into space.

"Just what?" she prompted.

"I don't really know," he answered thoughtfully as he chewed on his fingernails. "I couldn't get pass the naked men and women." That earned him a friendly but hard slap on his shoulder. The young man winced, then pretended to glare at her. "I could make your next mission a bitch, you know that, don't you?"

She rolled her eyes in reply to his weak threat. "C'mon kiddo. Out with it."

Resigned that he couldn't, for a second, scare the daylights out of her, he sighed. _Sometimes it's tough being the brains in Section; Everyone thinks you're a wimpy cybergeek... Which is not far from the truth,_ he quipped to himself. Unlike the other operatives, he was never placed in any situation where he had to fend for himself. A usual day would see him behind the glare of a computer screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Any other day, he would be sitting unscathed in a van, fitted with lots of amazing techno-gadgets and guiding strategic missions with the other operatives through portable communication sets.

Once, Michael had proposed that he be taught some art of self-defense so he could better protect himself, and the man had actually forced a gun on his hands_. God, I hate guns._ Not only he lacked the mandatory skills of self-preservation on the field, but the idea of simply holding a gun had him hyperventilating. _This is no fun; I think I've just shot my self-esteem, or lack thereof, to hell. _He grimaced.

And the woman operative was still looking expectantly at him.

"Code name's Adrian," he muttered depressed, wishing a retreat behind the safe wall of the screen. At least there, he felt invincible, safe and shielded from judgmental eyes. _These people ain't God, but they sure do a fair impression... in more ways than one..._ Glancing at the operative, he knew it wouldn't be anytime soon before she would let him off the hook, and he gave a mental groan.

She drew her breath sharply as she heard him speak, disbelieving his words. _One of us? No... It couldn't be! _She shut her eyes and in doing so, let the image of that young man whom she had only a brief look, burned in her mind. A smiling young chap with his hands holding up a peace sign came into view. He was wearing a blue rumpled sweater and a pair of faded blue jeans. There wasn't anything extraordinary with the way he dressed, but the blue of his top brought out the color of his eyes, making them seem almost like glowing sapphires. The soft rays of light played with his halo of long, brown curls, adding an almost ethereal quality. She figured the picture must had been taken with the sun directly behind him to achieve this effect or she might just have to consult the dictionary for the word 'Angel'.

And there was something about the way his lips curled up into a smile - a little suggestive, with a touch of sensuality and unfeigned innocence all rolled into one.

All in all, he was aesthetically pleasing to the eye and he didn't seem at all threatening. As a matter of fact, she thought Blair was a far cry from 'a killing machine'. Even a blind man could see he radiated too much love and respect for life to rob another out of it. _Guys like him don't do that. Guys like him don't fit._

A small voice in her head snapped back: And **you** do?

Startled for a moment, she violently shook her head. _No. But I'm here, aren't I?_ As she pieced two and two together, a horrifying thought came to her. _Maybe Blair was like her. Trapped without a choice._ If Blair was exactly what she thought him to be, then this life could be eating into his soul. He could kill himself for letting himself be thrown into this game. Then again, he might already be dead. She shuddered.

"Nikita?"

"Yes?" She answered and opened her eyes and found the bespectacled man looking at her strangely. "You were speaking about.. Adrian?" She asked and blanched visibly as she uttered the name.

"Yeah.." Something must have clicked because he was quick to add as he misread the distress on her face. "Ah gee, Nikita.. not **that** Adrian. He's got the wrong err.. equipment." A faint blush colored his pale cheeks. "He was one of us... Was... Is... I don't know actually." He shrugged as he adjusted his orange-tinted glasses. "He was here before many of us. One of the original elite members, I was told. And he was **good**. Word has it that Blair was molded for the next man in Operations' shoes."

The last comment had her baffled, and she narrowed her eyes as she shot a look at him, thinking he was pulling her leg. "He didn't look like the right material. I mean, have you seen him? The guy's practically a poster boy for World Peace. Is he under cover of sorts?"

"Must be one helluva cover," he muttered under his breath just audible enough for her to pick up. "He's been cruising around being **Blair** for five fucking years, and there's no mention of 'Recall' anywhere. I say he left Section One for good."

"What do you mean he left?" Her voice suddenly took a bitter tone. She remembered her feeble attempt to 'disappear'. Operations was good at his word. "Nobody leaves!"

"Apparently **he** did. Before him, I thought all those who left were either terminated during an operation or canceled."

"He just walked out and leave? Operations didn't stop him?" _Oh god... he __**left**__... if he could escape, maybe... oh god!_

"I don't know if Operations did or didn't... What I could get was bits and pieces from the elders. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to penetrate Section's security this time. They had his files clamed tight. After that fucking 1986 incident, I couldn't even squeeze my way past Level Two." He snarled in anger. "Whoever Blair may be, he must be a helluva pawn to be kept under wraps."

"Birkoff, you weren't an operative in 1986." A hint of a frown marred her expression as she tried to follow his words that was somehow difficult now - the idea that someone had escaped Section nagged at the back of her mind.

"My point exactly." The younger man smiled sheepishly. It wiped the frown from her face and won a small laugh out of the waif-like operative.

Just then a pony-tailed man in his late forties passed by, and he caught enough of the conversation to interject his own opinion. "Don't pay any attention to him, sweetie." He indicated Birkoff with a jerk of his chin and continued as he made a circular motion with his finger in the air just about the temple level. "He gets a wee bit irrational when someone takes away his toys."

"**Do not**!" Birkoff huffed in annoyance.

"Tell that to the president; you spent half your life here bitching about its security. And about your so-called ex-operative, you shouldn't have spun an old wives' tale about it." The older man shook his head in mild disapproval. _Jesus Birkoff, are you creating a mutiny here? Operations'll have your head if he knew you're going around calling up false hope on his people._ "You and I both know there's no such person."

"You're saying this Blair person doesn't exist at all, that Michael created him out of nowhere?" Nikita asked incredulously. "That's tough, Walter, even if it's true. I never tag Michael for a sucker for fantasy."

"That kind of talking is gonna get you creamed, sweetie. All I'm saying is this -- " Walter turned to the younger man expectantly. Birkoff sullenly answered 'Blair Sandburg' and was rewarded with a smile before Walter turned his attention back to Nikita. "This **Blair Sandburg** fella is as real as the hot-dog guy at the 57th street. He might even be an anthropologist as Birkoff speculated."

"**That** was a **fact** and for your information, **I** don't speculate." Birkoff rudely interrupted him and walked off.

Walter sighed as he watched Birkoff's retreating back. "As for the part about his being an ex-operative, I say it's bullshit. You know the rule: you check in and you don't check out... unless you're sixty feet under. Last time I checked, the rule still holds, and it wouldn't do you good believing otherwise." He turned to face her and made his eyes hard, hoping to drive the point home. "And you better believe it, Nikita. You better believe it."

TBC


End file.
